it's only <water/fire/love> [ open ]
Nov 12, 2014 15:29:41 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Nov 12, 2014 15:29:41 GMT -5
[googlefont="Megrim:400;Carrois Gothic SC:400;"]
Leon Krigel
I hope that you’re comfortable
He knows now why mentor is a word associated with a whole lot of pain.
Leon never expected to grow attached to his tributes, and they've always been 'the tributes from Four' every time he (nervously) leans in close to a Capitolite, coaxing support with all the experience of a newborn child - not that he didn't get some help, but the other mentors will always be so much better. But he never expected the term to change from 'the' to 'his', like he owns them in some messed up way - toys, dolls, tributes - what's the difference?
A whole lot, because when toys are broken, their family gives them no mind.
He should have tried harder. Shouldn't have spent so much time staring at Fionnbharr Stoddard, thinking about whose place Fion is taking, resentful and miserable all at once - it's no wonder that when Patricia came up to him with such a destructive offer he took it.
I could have gotten someone else killed. Not here, never here; they're all too safe.
Thank goodness for Soap.
When Zelphyr no-last-name was cut down brutally in the Bloodbath, Leon pushed back his chair and stalked away from the screen, trembling harder than he could ever imagine, wishing for something he couldn't then reach (because it's all gone, all gone, and yeah right, Soap would let him get more of the drug to make him smile). In his dreams her ring is at the forefront of his mind, the stupid girl who married so fucking early that when her life was put on fast forward - days instead of years to live - her hair never turned gray. Not a single strand.
They painted it red, instead.
He tried harder with Jay Krearns, as though in trying he'll somehow wipe off the blood of Zelphyr no-last-name, make himself worthy of her title as mentor. But the agreement to buy him whatever he needed didn't stop Jay's own ally's weapon from slicing his strings, leaving him a hollow puppet with no idea of the truth the darkness hid. And somehow it's best for Leon to think that this is best for Jay - to not know that Jay's death was an accident.
Even so, Leon still thinks about it at night.
(Wondered if he'd tried harder - could he have given Jay a light?)
Leon stares blankly at the flashing screen, fingers tapping an aimless rhythm on the armrest of his chair. He's got both of them on replay, the chaos of the bloodbath and Jay's last fight; even as he watches mindlessly he thinks to himself, this is a stupid idea, but he's said this millions of times now - too many times that the words mean nothing to him.
This is a stupid idea.
There's a knock on the door. Leon lifts his head, and hits the pause button on his remote. "Door's not locked," he says, even as he gets up to open it. His voice is slightly hoarse, and briefly remembering his manners, he adjusts his rumpled sleep shirt and runs a hand through his hair. What time is it anyway?
Leon never expected to grow attached to his tributes, and they've always been 'the tributes from Four' every time he (nervously) leans in close to a Capitolite, coaxing support with all the experience of a newborn child - not that he didn't get some help, but the other mentors will always be so much better. But he never expected the term to change from 'the' to 'his', like he owns them in some messed up way - toys, dolls, tributes - what's the difference?
A whole lot, because when toys are broken, their family gives them no mind.
He should have tried harder. Shouldn't have spent so much time staring at Fionnbharr Stoddard, thinking about whose place Fion is taking, resentful and miserable all at once - it's no wonder that when Patricia came up to him with such a destructive offer he took it.
I could have gotten someone else killed. Not here, never here; they're all too safe.
But back home is a different story altogether.
Thank goodness for Soap.
When Zelphyr no-last-name was cut down brutally in the Bloodbath, Leon pushed back his chair and stalked away from the screen, trembling harder than he could ever imagine, wishing for something he couldn't then reach (because it's all gone, all gone, and yeah right, Soap would let him get more of the drug to make him smile). In his dreams her ring is at the forefront of his mind, the stupid girl who married so fucking early that when her life was put on fast forward - days instead of years to live - her hair never turned gray. Not a single strand.
They painted it red, instead.
He tried harder with Jay Krearns, as though in trying he'll somehow wipe off the blood of Zelphyr no-last-name, make himself worthy of her title as mentor. But the agreement to buy him whatever he needed didn't stop Jay's own ally's weapon from slicing his strings, leaving him a hollow puppet with no idea of the truth the darkness hid. And somehow it's best for Leon to think that this is best for Jay - to not know that Jay's death was an accident.
Even so, Leon still thinks about it at night.
(Wondered if he'd tried harder - could he have given Jay a light?)
Leon stares blankly at the flashing screen, fingers tapping an aimless rhythm on the armrest of his chair. He's got both of them on replay, the chaos of the bloodbath and Jay's last fight; even as he watches mindlessly he thinks to himself, this is a stupid idea, but he's said this millions of times now - too many times that the words mean nothing to him.
This is a stupid idea.
There's a knock on the door. Leon lifts his head, and hits the pause button on his remote. "Door's not locked," he says, even as he gets up to open it. His voice is slightly hoarse, and briefly remembering his manners, he adjusts his rumpled sleep shirt and runs a hand through his hair. What time is it anyway?
In the quiet lasting grave
